


Defensive

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Bruises, Established Relationship, Face Punching, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Panic, Protectiveness, Spoilers, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3161606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Murasakibara is the problem, far more of a concern than the physical pain of the bruises themselves, and by the time Himuro rounds the corner and sees the other boy’s hunched shoulders his heart is pounding with frightened adrenaline." Murasakibara doesn't take Himuro getting punched calmly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defensive

Himuro goes back inside after fifteen minutes. He wants to wait, until the swelling goes down or at least until he has some kind of a plan to deal with the inevitable fallout when Murasakibara sees his face. But the ache gets worse the longer he waits, and he’s pretty sure the bruises are just getting uglier with every passing minute, and he doesn’t have even the outline of a solution. So after fifteen minutes, after Kise runs off for his game and Kagami and Alex have long since vanished, Himuro gets cold enough to turn around and head back inside.

The warmth of the interior aches when it hits his face, draws the imprint of a fist throbbing under his cheek, and Himuro knows he’s drawing stares but his hair is an advantage, lets him tip his head forward to hide in the shadow and hurry through the hallways before anyone has the nerve to say anything. It’s not strangers he’s worried about, nor even the rest of his team; he can make excuses, half-formed explanations they will accept. Murasakibara is the problem, far more of a concern than the physical pain of the bruises themselves, and by the time Himuro rounds the corner and sees the other boy’s hunched shoulders his heart is pounding with frightened adrenaline.

“Where have you been, Murochin?” Murasakibara asks without looking up. The words drawl in his throat, the snappish anger of the game evaporated into his usual calm; that’s a good start, at least. “Everyone else left already.”

“Sorry,” Himuro says, but the word catches in his throat and stretches odd and strained. “I was outside.”

“You sound weird,” Murasakibara says, and he’s starting to turn and there’s nowhere for Himuro to go to avoid his gaze. “You aren’t crying again are--”

His eyes focus on Himuro’s face, slide away from the other’s boy’s eyes almost instantly to stare at the bruise at the other’s cheek, the purpling coming fast at the corner of his eye, and his words die in his throat. Himuro takes a breath, still not sure what he’s going to say, and before he has time to speak Murasakibara is _there_ , on his feet and looming over him before Himuro even sees him move. There’s a hand at his jaw, fingers pressing against his face, and in the first instinctive panic Himuro goes stumbling backwards, across the floor until his shoulders hit a wall. Then there’s nowhere to go, between the wall at his back and the greater wall of the other boy in front of him, and Murasakibara is glaring down at his bruises with an expression Himuro has never seen on his face before.

“ _Who did this_?” he ask, cold and level and so growlingly low Himuro can feel the vibration all through his body. Even with Murasakibara’s fingers gentle on his skin and the knowledge that none of this anger is for him, Himuro is starting to shake, panic flooding him reflexively in response to the threat pinning him to the wall.

“Atsushi--” Himuro starts, but then Murasakibara looks at his eyes and he forgets what he was going to say as all the air leaves his lungs in a faint whimper.

“Was it Seirin?” the other asks, still icy and utterly, perfectly calm, and Himuro can see the suspicion form into certainty in a moment. Murasakibara is looking away, turning down the corridor, and Himuro has to grab at his shoulder, close his fingers desperately on the other boy’s wrist to slow him while he gasps “ _No_ , no, it wasn’t Taiga, it wasn’t Seirin.”

Murasakibara glances back without turning his shoulders back, his eyes freezing Himuro’s blood and stalling his breathing. “Who was it?” he says again, and there’s less violence there now but more calm, and Himuro can’t decide which is more frightening.

“Haizaki,” he blurts, too chilled by the look in Murasakibara’s eyes to hold his tongue. “He said he knew you--”

“I’ll kill him,” Murasakibara says, and there’s no heat in his voice, no fire at all to say that he’s exaggerating. There’s just perfect certainty, absolute determination, and he’s pulling away, moving down the hallway before Himuro can throw out an arm to catch his wrist.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Himuro blurts, but Murasakibara doesn’t so much as slow, drags Himuro away from the wall and down the hall in his wake without any sign of noticing the extra weight hanging off his arm. “Atsushi, _stop_.”

“He hit you,” Murasakibara intones as he keeps walking. “Your face is a mess, Murochin.”

“I know,” Himuro admits instantly. “I know, it’s okay.”

“He hit you,” Murasakibara says again, without any change in his tone.

“You can’t hurt him,” Himuro insists, digs his heels in in a futile effort to slow their forward motion. “ _Stop_ , Atsushi.”

Murasakibara takes another step, swings his arm hard, and Himuro’s footing slips, he goes stumbling forward. His shoes skid on the floor, his balance swings out, and for a brief heartstopping moment he can see the impact with the floor coming for him, is bracing for the impact jarring up his wrists and into his shoulders.

Then his arm twists, support catching his weight, and he’s fumbling himself back over his feet, gasping in delayed-reaction adrenaline as Murasakibara’s hold on his arm keeps him upright. Himuro reaches out with his free hand, grabs for extra support, and his fingers close on Murasakibara’s arm, pressing in against the heated skin under the thin cover of his jacket.

“You’re so clumsy, Murochin,” Murasakibara says, but there’s a tinge of warmth under his words, a familiar undertone that heats the icy terror in Himuro’s blood into relief.

“I know,” Himuro says, and leans in to press his forehead against Murasakibara’s chest. The other doesn’t move away for once, lets Himuro fit his face against the sleek fabric of his jacket, and the texture shouldn’t be soothing to the bruises on Himuro’s face but it is, it eases the pain off as the cool of outside couldn’t manage. Himuro is still taking a slow breath, appreciating the lack of hurt under his skin for a moment, when Murasakibara’s arm drops down around his shoulders. From the weight of it he’s just resting his arm rather than supporting it himself, but it’s comforting too, warm and heavy like it’s locking Himuro in place.

“Let’s go home,” Himuro says into Murasakibara’s jacket.

“Mine?” Murasakibara asks, and there’s not even his usual whine of irritation under the word, just legitimate inquiry in his voice.

“Yeah.” Himuro takes a breath, steadying himself before he pulls away and lifts his head to glance up. Murasakibara is watching him, his eyes sliding to the bruises at Himuro’s eye again, but the shadow in his expression doesn’t reappear, and when Himuro reaches for his hand he doesn’t tug his fingers free like he usually does.

No one looks at them as they make their way back through the halls. Himuro’s not sure if it’s the bruises on his skin or the breadth of Murasakibara’s shoulders that are keeping everyone’s gazes so carefully turned away, and for once he doesn’t care. It’s enough to have Murasakibara’s hand in his, the heavy weight of his fingers tangled with Himuro’s instead of going out after Haizaki.

Tomorrow Himuro’s bruises will be darker, less swollen and more visible, and he doesn’t envy Kise the fight he’s likely to have against Haizaki on the court. But tomorrow he will wake up with the warmth of Murasakibara’s skin against his, the weight of an oversized arm pushing him against unfamiliar sheets, and the memory of Murasakibara’s fury on his behalf is more comfort even than the promise of tomorrow in his mind.


End file.
